Prison Break - In This Mundane Time
Title: In This Mundane Time
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairings: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1225
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Evenings are the best. Warm, slow and mundane. (Pre-series)
Author’s Note: Written for
kink_bingo ( my card). Also for a prompt by halfshellvenus: ‘Summer evening’.
Kink for kink-bingo: This is for ‘vanilla kink’.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the read-through.
Lincoln has promised. Of course, it doesn’t mean anything because there are the promises that he can keep and the others, and this one belongs to the latter. This kind of respite, with Lincoln clean and resolved to amend and straighten up his life, has never been perennial. It won’t prevent Michael from reveling in it as long as possible. Taking what he can, aware it’s all the more precious in its fleetingness.
Evenings are the best. Warm, slow and mundane. For him, summer evenings have always had that odd quality to feel as if they were going to last forever; right now, Michael can live with that feeling.
They quickly fell into a pleasant routine. Shower when he gets home, dinner, movie he doesn’t pay attention to or documentary Lincoln doesn’t care for, settling in bed for the night. When they have sex, it’s casual and unfussy because air conditioning or not, the summer heat is exhausting; maybe also because they spent the first week fucking in a variety of ways and positions that eventually calmed their most urgent need and lust for one another.
Days aren’t bad; brighter and lighter than they’ve been in a few years, but evenings and the prospect of Lincoln waiting for him at home is what makes Michael’s mind quieter and appeased; focused. The world isn’t a crazy assemblage of tiny pieces never perfectly fitting together anymore, because Lincoln has always been able to steady it for Michael. So, cool apartment towering above the over-heated city, nice dinner, nice evening, Lincoln, and the night ahead of them.
A cold beer is waiting for him on the credenza in the lobby - it’s set on a coaster - and pleasant smells float through the apartment from the kitchen. He gets rid of his jacket and briefcase, grabs the beer, and heads for the kitchen.
Lincoln, jeans and tank top, salad and steaks, and Michael’s not sure what makes his mouth water the most, the sight or the food - Linc is a better cook than he is, but food isn’t necessarily the first thing on Michael’s mind right now. He raises his beer as his brother faces him and smirks.
“Too much good-wifey-like?” Lincoln asks.
“I could get used to it.”
He leans in for a kiss, but Lincoln barely brushes his lips before pushing him back.
“Shower and dinner first.”
* *
They watch a documentary he doesn’t pay attention to. He’s too busy dozing against Lincoln’s side, breathing him in and dragging his fingertips over Linc’s abs almost mechanically. Touching to reassure himself that Linc is here; touching because Linc is here and it would be a waste not to enjoy it in the simplest ways. Lincoln doesn’t tell him to stop, or try to push his hand lower.
* *
So, when they have sex, it’s casual and unfussy; apparently bordering on unremarkable.
It’s never been that good before; he’s never come that hard, never been that dizzy and sated - fucked-out - after and so sure that no one would ever be able to undo him in such a way.
He didn’t see that one coming. This part of their relationship was usually sharp and demanding, sometimes to the point of dirtiness. Easier to drown its wrongness under other kinds of wrongness and easy thrills, to forget for a few minutes who they were fucking when they did it up against the wall of a back alley, or long and messy on the floor of the living room as soon as they had shut the door.
The first time, it left him limp and voiceless, shocked. Lincoln squinted at him, doubt and annoyance obvious on his face, unhappy and somewhat offended not to have got him off properly. Michael couldn’t find the words to explain to him; couldn’t find any words at all and had hardly enough strength to roll onto his stomach before falling sound asleep.
Tonight, it’s not totally dark yet; the air of the city is seeping into the bedroom, moist and stifling and heavy because Lincoln doesn’t like air conditioning and has cracked the windows opened. Michael didn’t protest, didn’t stress out that it’s ridiculous to end up sweaty and sticky when they could lie in a nicely cool bedroom, on a nicely fresh bed. You will end up sweaty and sticky after I’m done with you anyway, Lincoln would have said, or something as cockily similar, and it would have been true, no point in protesting.
He’s on his back, knees pressed into Lincoln’s hips, mind focused on heat and sweat, and on Lincoln moving evenly inside him - in-and-out, in-and-out, in-and-out, maddeningly basic position, maddeningly slow pace, breath-taking pleasure. He means this literally: Lincoln has done little more than back-and-forth rolling his hips, and Michael’s already struggling for air.
His hands slide up the bunched muscles of Lincoln’s back and splay on his shoulder blades, trying to touch and stroke as much skin as possible in one broad movement. It seems to set off something in Lincoln, that sudden hitch in Michael’s apparent passiveness and lack of interest, because he stills totally - he’s deep, deep inside, and Michael is going to lose it in the most embarrassing way if Linc doesn’t move again very soon.
Linc starts to ask what’s wrong with him, why he just lies back and takes it, hardly responding at all. He stops mid-sentence because Michael is looking up and meeting his gaze, and there’s nowhere for him to hide anymore: lips parted on a supplication, blue eyes boiling with want and need, tiny beads of perspiration surging on his skin in his effort to hold off just a little longer.
“You like that,” Lincolns blurts out, realization eventually hitting home.
Michael licks his lips. They taste like sweat and Linc. Linc’s sweat.
“Of course I do. I haven’t been lying on my back and thinking of England since you got out of jail again and moved in here.”
He tries to joke, to shrug it off, but Lincoln isn’t buying any of it now. His brother grins, satisfaction mingling with amusement and surprise.
“No, you like that. The whole ordinary gig. It turns you on big time.” Lincoln’s voice lowers to a filthy, velvety whisper, and it’s absurd what his silly words do to Michael’s heart, brain and guts. “You like to play house, Mike, don’t you? Do you want me to call you ‘honey’ when you get back from work?”
He’s really asking. That’s one odd attempt at dirty talk, at playing on the soft spot he just found out. Michael can’t help smiling because it’s so bad yet so sweet at the same time. He kisses Lincoln’s rough jaw, lips chafing just a bit on his stubble, and arches up into him.
“Just... keep doing what you were doing.”
He is sweaty and sticky by the time Lincoln is done with him; perspiration, hints of saliva and the sultry night air. Lincoln rolls off him, not without kissing him deep and long first, and lays a possessive hand on his damp stomach. He doesn’t overdo it, doesn’t try to cuddle or whatever would seem fitting. Michael shivers, mind clear and focused, world making sense and living in Lincoln’s big hand, in his scent and warmth.
Evenings are the best. Slow, mundane, and forever no matter what.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome.
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairings: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1225
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Evenings are the best. Warm, slow and mundane. (Pre-series)
Author’s Note: Written for
kink_bingo ( my card). Also for a prompt by halfshellvenus: ‘Summer evening’.
Kink for kink-bingo: This is for ‘vanilla kink’.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the read-through.
Lincoln has promised. Of course, it doesn’t mean anything because there are the promises that he can keep and the others, and this one belongs to the latter. This kind of respite, with Lincoln clean and resolved to amend and straighten up his life, has never been perennial. It won’t prevent Michael from reveling in it as long as possible. Taking what he can, aware it’s all the more precious in its fleetingness.
Evenings are the best. Warm, slow and mundane. For him, summer evenings have always had that odd quality to feel as if they were going to last forever; right now, Michael can live with that feeling.
They quickly fell into a pleasant routine. Shower when he gets home, dinner, movie he doesn’t pay attention to or documentary Lincoln doesn’t care for, settling in bed for the night. When they have sex, it’s casual and unfussy because air conditioning or not, the summer heat is exhausting; maybe also because they spent the first week fucking in a variety of ways and positions that eventually calmed their most urgent need and lust for one another.
Days aren’t bad; brighter and lighter than they’ve been in a few years, but evenings and the prospect of Lincoln waiting for him at home is what makes Michael’s mind quieter and appeased; focused. The world isn’t a crazy assemblage of tiny pieces never perfectly fitting together anymore, because Lincoln has always been able to steady it for Michael. So, cool apartment towering above the over-heated city, nice dinner, nice evening, Lincoln, and the night ahead of them.
A cold beer is waiting for him on the credenza in the lobby - it’s set on a coaster - and pleasant smells float through the apartment from the kitchen. He gets rid of his jacket and briefcase, grabs the beer, and heads for the kitchen.
Lincoln, jeans and tank top, salad and steaks, and Michael’s not sure what makes his mouth water the most, the sight or the food - Linc is a better cook than he is, but food isn’t necessarily the first thing on Michael’s mind right now. He raises his beer as his brother faces him and smirks.
“Too much good-wifey-like?” Lincoln asks.
“I could get used to it.”
He leans in for a kiss, but Lincoln barely brushes his lips before pushing him back.
“Shower and dinner first.”
* *
They watch a documentary he doesn’t pay attention to. He’s too busy dozing against Lincoln’s side, breathing him in and dragging his fingertips over Linc’s abs almost mechanically. Touching to reassure himself that Linc is here; touching because Linc is here and it would be a waste not to enjoy it in the simplest ways. Lincoln doesn’t tell him to stop, or try to push his hand lower.
* *
So, when they have sex, it’s casual and unfussy; apparently bordering on unremarkable.
It’s never been that good before; he’s never come that hard, never been that dizzy and sated - fucked-out - after and so sure that no one would ever be able to undo him in such a way.
He didn’t see that one coming. This part of their relationship was usually sharp and demanding, sometimes to the point of dirtiness. Easier to drown its wrongness under other kinds of wrongness and easy thrills, to forget for a few minutes who they were fucking when they did it up against the wall of a back alley, or long and messy on the floor of the living room as soon as they had shut the door.
The first time, it left him limp and voiceless, shocked. Lincoln squinted at him, doubt and annoyance obvious on his face, unhappy and somewhat offended not to have got him off properly. Michael couldn’t find the words to explain to him; couldn’t find any words at all and had hardly enough strength to roll onto his stomach before falling sound asleep.
Tonight, it’s not totally dark yet; the air of the city is seeping into the bedroom, moist and stifling and heavy because Lincoln doesn’t like air conditioning and has cracked the windows opened. Michael didn’t protest, didn’t stress out that it’s ridiculous to end up sweaty and sticky when they could lie in a nicely cool bedroom, on a nicely fresh bed. You will end up sweaty and sticky after I’m done with you anyway, Lincoln would have said, or something as cockily similar, and it would have been true, no point in protesting.
He’s on his back, knees pressed into Lincoln’s hips, mind focused on heat and sweat, and on Lincoln moving evenly inside him - in-and-out, in-and-out, in-and-out, maddeningly basic position, maddeningly slow pace, breath-taking pleasure. He means this literally: Lincoln has done little more than back-and-forth rolling his hips, and Michael’s already struggling for air.
His hands slide up the bunched muscles of Lincoln’s back and splay on his shoulder blades, trying to touch and stroke as much skin as possible in one broad movement. It seems to set off something in Lincoln, that sudden hitch in Michael’s apparent passiveness and lack of interest, because he stills totally - he’s deep, deep inside, and Michael is going to lose it in the most embarrassing way if Linc doesn’t move again very soon.
Linc starts to ask what’s wrong with him, why he just lies back and takes it, hardly responding at all. He stops mid-sentence because Michael is looking up and meeting his gaze, and there’s nowhere for him to hide anymore: lips parted on a supplication, blue eyes boiling with want and need, tiny beads of perspiration surging on his skin in his effort to hold off just a little longer.
“You like that,” Lincolns blurts out, realization eventually hitting home.
Michael licks his lips. They taste like sweat and Linc. Linc’s sweat.
“Of course I do. I haven’t been lying on my back and thinking of England since you got out of jail again and moved in here.”
He tries to joke, to shrug it off, but Lincoln isn’t buying any of it now. His brother grins, satisfaction mingling with amusement and surprise.
“No, you like that. The whole ordinary gig. It turns you on big time.” Lincoln’s voice lowers to a filthy, velvety whisper, and it’s absurd what his silly words do to Michael’s heart, brain and guts. “You like to play house, Mike, don’t you? Do you want me to call you ‘honey’ when you get back from work?”
He’s really asking. That’s one odd attempt at dirty talk, at playing on the soft spot he just found out. Michael can’t help smiling because it’s so bad yet so sweet at the same time. He kisses Lincoln’s rough jaw, lips chafing just a bit on his stubble, and arches up into him.
“Just... keep doing what you were doing.”
He is sweaty and sticky by the time Lincoln is done with him; perspiration, hints of saliva and the sultry night air. Lincoln rolls off him, not without kissing him deep and long first, and lays a possessive hand on his damp stomach. He doesn’t overdo it, doesn’t try to cuddle or whatever would seem fitting. Michael shivers, mind clear and focused, world making sense and living in Lincoln’s big hand, in his scent and warmth.
Evenings are the best. Slow, mundane, and forever no matter what.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome.